Feet together, back straight, head up. The nurse shoved me against the wall and told me something that changed my life forever.

"Five foot ten and a half," she said. "Good, get on the scale, please."

Perhaps this is not significant for you. A minor step in a routine physical examination. But I was stunned to the core of my being, because for the previous 25 years or so it had been the fervent belief of both myself and the Florida Department of Transportation that I topped out at 5' 9". Suddenly, with the skritch of a ballpoint in my medical file, I had gained an inch and a half. Not since I got married had a document changed my life so drastically.

Almost immediately — after I made the nurse check twice more, with my shoes off — I began feeling the difference. The air higher up was crisper, cleaner. I could see farther, to the glorious vistas of the horizon. Unconsciously I felt myself developing heretofore unsuspected alpha male characteristics. Well, not really unconsciously; I think I actually said, "Stand back! I am developing heretofore unsuspected alpha male characteristics!" But nurses are used to things like that and can ignore them easily since they have the firm and fully justified opinion that in any situation, even if the patient is 65-feet tall and kicking over buildings, the nurse is in charge. She gently escorted me to the scale where I discovered I had gained weight, which seemed reasonable, considering.

When my doctor came in we chuckled over my middle-aged growth spurt but still, things had changed. Where before I'd have looked at him and thought, "Kind, intelligent, caring, good doctor," now I found myself thinking, "I can take him."

In this sexist, sizeist, shapist, caveman-based society, men are immediately judged by their height. (Also by their muscles, hair, teeth, romantic prowess and bank account, but sadly none of those have been kind enough to spontaneously upgrade for me.) Actors know this, which is why finding out an actor's precise height can often be tricky and may require a measuring tape and chloral hydrate. Not if they're honestly tall, of course, like John Cleese (6’5”), Clint Eastwood (6’4”), or Sigourney Weaver (6’0”), but when they’re in that midrange things get fuzzy, especially when the actors tend towards leading roles and might be expected to be extra manly. Sylvester Stallone has been reported at 5’9”, 5’10 1/2”, and 5’11”. Mel Gibson’s alleged heightage has ranged from 5’4” to 5’10”. And despite camera angles, shoe lifts, and trenches for the supporting actors to stand in, it is widely accepted that Tom Cruise is an even 3 feet high.

Wait, no, he’s 5’7”, although he claims 5’9”. Which means that not only am I taller than him, now I can loom over him. Granted, he could still kick my butt… or could he? It’s higher now, Top Gun. Not so tough now, are you? I could totally take him.

There’s also the health benefits. I took an abrupt jump up to the left on the Body Mass Index. Suddenly, without so much as a pushup, I’m no longer overweight. Well, no longer dangerously overweight. Those charts are all biased, anyway.

I left the doctor’s office and strode out into the world to take my rightful place as leader. Crowds parted before me. Children looked up to me. Suddenly an entire range of women who would never have considered me as an attractive mate based on my stats were forced to look at me with new, slightly lower eyes. I could now stare down a larger percentage of drunken guys in bars, since many of them can only make out dim shapes anyway and mine would be slightly larger, a clear evolutionary advantage. I could feel myself ready to take on more responsibility, interrupt conversations, inconvenience theater-goers, maybe get my own news anchor position.

Then again, I’m also now a bigger target. More height means more strain on my heart. It might take longer for information to reach my brain. If word got out I would be forced to spend my days getting boxes off high shelves for the less vertically fortunate.

And, worst of all, the height disparity between myself and my wife (4’11”) is even greater now. Would it tear us apart? Would we be able to overcome this mixed marriage of altitudes? Could she accept me for who I really was, a stilt man with bad hair?

She greeted me at home with open arms, lovingly ignoring my freakishly tall stature, and all was well. I should have had more confidence in her calm acceptance and self-assurance, even if she was a foot shorter than I was, because she knows with bone-deep conviction an unassailable fact.

She can take me.

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